


Stumbling to Shore

by Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated



Series: Metaphorically Afloat [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 2020, 2020 US Presidential Election, American Politics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:54:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated/pseuds/Anonymous_Authors_Incorporated
Summary: (Two years before present)“Enjolras!” Grantaire yelled, kicking at the door to their flat gently. “Can you open the door? My hands are full!”He heard an exasperated (and exaggerated) sigh.Enjolras pretended to grouse as he drew nearer to the door. “How did you get up the lift if your hands are too full to get the door?”Grantaire grinned, waiting for his flatmate to open the door.Enjolras gasped.“Bloody hellGrantaire! How on god’s green Earth did you make it up here without help?”Enjolras carefully grasped the two heavy bags of ceramics, leaving Grantaire free to maneuver the mass of canvases he was carrying through the door.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Metaphorically Afloat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023226
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Stumbling to Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [standalone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/gifts).



> TW: Referenced partner abuse. A character is seen after having been abused by a partner, and does not leave the partner immediately. It is all off screen.
> 
> This is kind of a follow up or companion to Any Port in a Storm, and therefore is vaguely also inspired by the lovely standalone. It's more that the universe wouldn't let me rest until I de-vagued their relationship, and also until they, too, got peace in knowing that the annoying orange did not win the election.

“Enj. Enj, wake up!”

“Mm? Wha’s it, R?”

Grantaire could feel himself grinning at the beautiful, sleep rumpled blond. “They called it, Enj. We can breathe.”

Enjolras sat up, and Grantaire moved quickly to avoid getting hit by his roommate’s flailing limbs.

He looked into Enjolras’s suddenly alert, sparkling blue eyes. “We won?”

Grantaire pressed his forehead against Enjolras’s. “We won.”

He felt Enjolras’s laugh begin to bubble out of him, the puffs of air against his lips, his friend’s shaking body. They laughed, helpless, for a few minutes, rolling on Enjolras’s bed, embracing, nearly crying from relief.

As Enjolras smiled at him, Grantaire imagined just _doing it._ Reaching out and asking this beautiful, wonderful, force of nature of a man _“Can I kiss you?”_

He bit his lip and sat up instead. “Breakfast? I’m sorry for waking you up early, but I figured you’d want to know as soon as possible, and I was watching the news and they called it…”

He felt Enjolras’s hand alight on his shoulder. “Thank you, Aire. And yes, breakfast, if you’re offering to cook?”

When he turned to look at his roommate, Enjolras had fixed him with pleading eyes, and he sighed, pretending it was a hardship and that he had ever considered anything but giving in. “Fine, if you insist. Frittata it is.”

He quirked a smile and stood up, offering the blond his hand.

Grantaire smiled as he made his way to the kitchen, his sleepy roommate trailing behind, and started the coffee maker for the second time that morning. The end of the first pot was sitting in his own almost full mug, and Grantaire rolled his eyes as Enjolras claimed it for himself.

He allowed the transgression as he cracked eggs into a bowl, grabbed their bigger cast iron pan, and wondered when they’d started to accumulate shared property and become so thoroughly domestic.

(Nine years before present)

“Come on, ’Taire. Please? For me?” Joly turned his puppy dog eyes on Grantaire, and the artist was helpless to deny his friend anything.

“Fine, I’ll go with you. But this cute boy? He better be worth it.”

Joly hugged him tight. “Thank you Aire you’re the best! You won’t regret it, I swear, and if you don’t like it, you never have to go back, I promise. Last week, we talked about reforming the criminal justice system…”

(Eight years before present)

“Grantaire! Are you alright?”

He looked up, squinting, trying to see who was calling his name through his black eyes.

_“Holy shit, R!”_

_Ah. Eponine._

He stumbled to his feet—or tried to. Even trying to move made him cry out in pain, which, in turn, made his ribs scream in agony, and then there were tears flowing down his face again, and he couldn’t breathe and it hurt _so much._

He may have passed out, he wasn’t entirely sure, but when he came back to himself enough to know anything, Eponine had laid him out flat on the ground, and was shushing him gently, holding onto his left hand for dear life, her phone held between her ear and her shoulder.

“You with me, R? Don’t try to speak, I think your ribs may be broken.”

He nodded weakly. Breathing hurt like a son of a bitch, but he managed to quietly mutter “Who?” before breaking into painful coughs.

Eponine looked terrified. “Shit. Shit, Joly? I think maybe his lung is punctured, he’s coughing and there’s _blood,_ Joly what do I _do?”_

Grantaire had never heard her so afraid, and he squeezed her hand. “’S okay, ’Ponine.” He grinned, and a tear fell down her cheek.

“Alright, hurry, please.” She released his hand from one of her own to hang up and put her phone down.

“What _happened,_ R?” Her face darkened. “It was that shithole of a boy you’re seeing, wasn’t it,” she looked murderous. “I’ll kill him.”

Grantaire shook his head as much as possible. “No. It was my fault, Ep.”

She looked at him sadly, and he tried to draw in a breath to defend himself, his boyfriend wasn’t abusive, it was an accident—but he started to cough uncontrollably. 

He had no idea how long passed like that, coughing on and off, Eponine just looking at him, scared and sad, before Joly’s car screeched to a halt in front of the alley and Joly, Combeferre, and Bahorel scrambled out.

He tightened his grip on Eponine’s hand. “Ep—” he coughed, “Don’t call the cops.”

She nodded, but her face was drawn with fury. He let go of his hand and Joly and Combeferre rushed to his side. He grinned up at Joly.

“Hey,” he whispered, hoarsely. Joly seemed close to tears.

_“God, R,”_ he whispered. “How did we let this happen to you?”

Grantaire closed his eyes, and a moment passed. He assumed they had a quiet conversation, because a moment later, Joly shifted away from his side, to be replaced by a bigger person. Bahorel.

His boxing partner gently laid a hand on his shoulders, and another hand on his knee, and whispered “R, I am so sorry,” before lifting him up, and Grantaire was in _excruciating_ pain. He passed out.

When he came to again, he was laid in the back of Joly’s car, across Combeferre and Bahorel’s laps, and the car was moving. He was crying in pain, and whimpering at the slightest bump in the road. He could hear Eponine sniffling in the front seat.

“Joly, this is all my fault, if I’d never introduced him to that asshole—”

Grantaire tried to speak, but could do nothing but cough up blood. Combeferre wiped it away and tried to calm him down.

“Joly, how far are we? Not to worry you, but it’s getting worse.”

A wounded noise from the front seat.

“Two minutes.”

The time felt interminable, and then suddenly they were there, and Bahorel was doing his best to be gentle as he picked Grantaire up. Combeferre ran ahead.

The next several hours were a blur—white hallways and pain and all kinds of scans—and then Grantaire fell into a medication-fueled sleep.

When he woke up, Eponine, Combeferre, Joly, Bohorel, and, inexplicably, Enjolras were in the room. Eponine was asleep at his bedside, holding his hand, her head on the hospital bed. Combeferre, Joly, and Bahorel were all asleep, the two pre-med students slumped together, as if they had been conversing, and Bahorel leaned back, snoring. Only Enjolras was awake, and he was reading.

“’Jolras?” he slurred, quietly.

The blond looked up from his book, startled. “Grantaire! You’re awake!”

He put the bookmark in his book, and began to make as if to wake Joly and Combeferre.

Grantaire shook his head slightly. “Won’t be awake long. Jus’ tell Ponine it’s no’ her fault for me, ‘kay? I’m the one who did something stupid.”

Enjolras sighed and stood, putting his book down on the seat he had just vacated so he could come stand by Grantaire’s side. “Grantaire, whatever happened, none of us will blame you, okay? We’re just worried about you. We care about you, damnit.” He reached out and gently pushed a couple curls out of Grantaire’s eyes. “If anything, it’s our fault for letting things get that bad. We thought he might be hitting you, but—” Enjolras broke off, blinking back frustrated tears. “We failed you, R. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire could feel himself fading, and he smiled loopily up at Enjolras. “‘Pollo, ‘s not your fault. ‘Sides, you don’t even like me, so this is an unconvincing dream.” He laughed a little, more a series of quick exhales than a true laugh. “The real Enjolras wouldn’t break a sweat over me. ‘M not _Combeferre,_ or _Courfeyrac.”_ He frowned. “Active imagination, do better.”

And with that he was asleep. He didn’t see the way Enjolras looked stricken by what he said, like he might break into tears.

The next time he woke up, Grantaire felt much more lucid, and everyone else in the room was also awake. Bahorel had been replaced with Courfeyrac, and they were all engaged in quiet conversation around him. He squeezed Eponine’s hand gently.

“Oh! He’s awake!”

When Eponine turned to him, it was clear she had been crying on and off the whole time he’d been sleeping. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and someone had clearly tried to wipe her eyeliner off, but traces of it remained in faint tear tracks down her cheeks.

“Hey Ponine,” he rasps. “Did Apollo do what I asked?”

She glared in answer, and he cracked a grin.

“He told me,” she said, glowering. “And I told him to fuck right off because you’re wrong.”

Grantaire chuckled, then winced. Joly grabbed his cane and stood.

“The nurses said to tell them when you woke up,” the pre-med came over and kissed him on the forehead, a faint benediction. “I’ll be right back.”

His friends made light chatter around him, while they waited for a nurse or doctor to arrive. Grantaire was grateful that they didn’t expect him to participate much, if at all. He felt exhausted simply by being awake.

After the nurse checked on him and returned with the doctor, Grataire was informed that he had three broken ribs, one of which had punctured his left lung, a fractured shin, a large number of cuts and bruises, a dislocated shoulder (which had been relocated), and a mild concussion. The doctors had been concerned about damage to his windpipe, but despite the bruises consistent with strangulation (Combeferre hissed), his trachea seemed intact. All the doctors wanted now was to ask him a few questions, in private.

“I fell down the stairs.” He told them, staring straight ahead. “Nothing happened.”

Despite his adamant refusal of anything having happened, it was decided that when he was released from the hospital he would stay with Eponine for a few weeks.

It took another two years for Grantaire to leave his boyfriend, and he had no idea what to do with himself. He found himself standing at the door to Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac’s shared flat, clutching a backpack full of art supplies.

He knocked hesitantly on the door.

When Combeferre opened the door, it took him all of one look to put it all together. “You left him,” he said without preamble. “Congratulations. Our spare room is the one that used to be Courfeyrac’s.”

Grantaire shuffled down the hallway, and dropped onto the bed. Combeferre brought him an ice pack for his black eye and a bottle of whiskey for his heart, and they spent the night pirating Avatar the Last Airbender and drinking.

(Five years before present)

“Enjolras, our lease is almost up, are we going to keep looking for a roommate or can we finally admit that we should just move to a smaller apartment?”

Enjolras studied him critically, his expression unreadable. 

_Perhaps fond?_

_No,_ Grantaire thought. Enjolras was many things, but not _fond_ of him.

“You may be right,” he said, pensively. “Subletting has _not_ worked out for us. It’s probably smarter to find a new apartment. If you’re sure you want to keep living with me?”

Grantaire smiled, relieved. “We’ve kinda got a system going, and I quite like it. Looking for a replacement roommate who’s both fine with the hours I keep and not an axe murderer would be a challenge.”

Enjolras laughed, and that was that.

(Present)

Living with someone for almost six years, Grantaire supposed, would be fairly likely to have the effect of acquisition of at least _some_ shared property.

Grantaire popped the frittata in the oven and grabbed Enjolras’s favorite red mug from the cupboard, filling it with coffee and sugar, just as he liked it. Enjolras glowered a little at him.

“That’s my mug,” he said, a little petulantly.

Grantaire smiled at him. “That’s the price you pay for stealing both my mug and my coffee,” he said, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at the green and apparently paint splattered mug Enjolras was holding close to his chest, like a dragon.

Enjolras looked down, almost surprised. “Oh,”

Grantaire ruffled his hair and laughed brightly. Enjolras scrunched his nose but made no attempts to fix his hair, simply suffering the indignity.

They sat in comfortable silence, absorbing the caffeine.

(Two years before present)

“Enjolras!” Grantaire yelled, kicking at the door to their flat gently. “Can you open the door? My hands are full!”

He heard an exasperated (and exaggerated) sigh. 

Enjolras pretended to grouse as he drew nearer to the door. “How did you get up the lift if your hands are too full to get the door?”

Grantaire grinned, waiting for his flatmate to open the door.

Enjolras gasped. _“Bloody hell_ Grantaire! How on god’s green Earth did you make it up here without help?”

Enjolras carefully grasped the two heavy bags of ceramics, leaving Grantaire free to maneuver the mass of canvases he was carrying through the door.

Grantaire laughed. “Look inside the blue bag, and be careful unwrapping them.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Grantaire, who just grinned back, helplessly.

Grantaire leaned the canvases down against the wall, closed the door, and watched his flatmate unwrap… a mug. It was mainly yellow, the outside looking like it had been smudged with a million different shades in an abstract form, and at the bottom, on the inside, a small Polish flag.

Enjolras looked at him quizzically.

Grantaire laughed slightly. “Go on, open another.”

Brown, with a tankard at the bottom.

The next was grey with a sleeping black cat, then purple with a notebook.

Grantaire stopped him. “I’ll put you out of your misery.”

He reached into the other back and pulled out two mugs. The newspaper around them was labeled. One read “R”, the other “E”.

Enjolras unwrapped the one labeled E first, and smiled.

“You made one for each of our friends, didn’t you?”

Grantaire grinned and nodded. “Color coded and marked with symbols. You, Courf, and Ferre are red white and blue, by the way. Hey, did you know that the theater masks have names? They’re called Sock and Buskin, and that is the most cursed thing I learned while making these. It turns out that…”

(Present)

Grantaire stood to pull the frittata from the oven.

“Grantaire?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you know that if we lived in New Hampshire we could be considered in a common law marriage?”

Grantaire nearly dropped the pan.

“What do you mean?” He turned, slowly, putting the hot cast iron pan on a trivet he had already put on the counter.

Enjolras looked at him pensively. “We’ve lived together for five years,” he says, as if that explains anything.

Grantaire stares at him, helplessly confused.

Enjolras blushes and looks down.

“Sorry. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. A case came by the other week, with a common law marriage involved, and. Well.” He fiddles with the mug, holding it close. “It made me think of you.”

Grantaire blinked slowly, and took a deep breath. “Enj—”

“What I’m saying, Grantaire, is that I do believe I’m a little bit in love with you.” He looked at Grantaire without raising his head. “And I thought that you deserved to know, because I respect you. If I’m honest, I think I’ve felt this way for a long time, and—”

Grantaire laughed gently. “Enjolras, it’s okay.”

Enjolras looked at him.

“Can I kiss you?”

Grantaire’s smile curved gently around the word.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea if this is over. I hope it is, I don't want to steal other people's fic things (go read the fucking political bullshit au by standalone RIGHT NOW if you haven't already).
> 
> For anyone curious, here's the full list of the mug colors and symbols. All the mugs are painted in abstract shades of a color on the outside, and have the symbol at the bottom of the inside, so it's visible when empty.
> 
> Enjolras - Red, with a cockade  
> Grantaire - Green, paintbrush  
> Feuilly - Yellow, Polish flag  
> Bahorel - Brown, boxing gloves  
> Eponine - Grey, sleeping black cat  
> Cosette - Periwinkle, bluebird  
> Marius - Orange, dog  
> Jehan - Amethyst, notebook  
> Joly - Steel blue, forget me nots  
> Combeferre - Royal Blue, Rod of Asclepias  
> Courfeyrac - Off white, Sock and Buskin (the comedy and tragedy masks)  
> Bossuet - Burgundy, crow  
> Musichetta - Gold, fox


End file.
